


The Effect of Jane

by badboy_fangirl



Series: The Effects Series [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 07:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10552566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badboy_fangirl/pseuds/badboy_fangirl
Summary: What S3 would have looked like if Jane Phillips had been utilized as the kickass character she was.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story started as a series of one shots, but it eventually morphed into a very long multi-chapter fic.
> 
> This part was written post 2x10, Rendezvous, after we first were introduced to the character of Jane.
> 
> It was originally written in first person, but once I realized the first three parts were a prologue of sorts, it changed into third person.

It’s been a long time since I let myself think about sex  _with_  someone. In prison, sex was just whatever type of release I gave myself whenever the need arose, and the longer I was in prison, the less often the need arose. There’s something about your own impending death that short-circuits your regular sexual appetite.  
  
Even after Vee was regularly coming to see me, and working so hard to appeal my case, and even though I have a million sexual memories of her, I still didn’t think about sex with her. I just couldn’t let myself, and now, I see why. I’m not one for self-protection, but that inability was obviously something I had to do for my own sanity. Because a world without Vee is terrible enough without a bunch of pipe dreams waiting to never be fulfilled.  
  
Standing in the doorway of the kitchen of this house my dad keeps referring to as our ‘base’ I watch Jane as she slaps together a sandwich at the island in the middle of the room. I have had decidedly sexual thoughts about her, about me _with_  her, and the feeling of good ol’ fashioned lust running through my veins makes me feel as alive as possible given the situation. We’ve been here for several hours now, and it looks like we’ll stay until tomorrow morning before we go to meet up with Michael.  
  
Which means there’s time to think about other things, for the first time in…I can’t remember when.  
  
It’s her ass that is driving me most crazy. When she’s facing me, I keep imagining my hands cupping it and bringing her body up tight against mine. She’s a tall woman, which is nice. We’d fit well together from what I can tell. Her ass is full and curvy and my palms actually itch with wanting to caress her buttocks. My fingers want to shape the pliant skin and then slide down and pull her legs apart so they can wrap around me. When she’s walking away from me, it’s an equally tantalizing prospect. I imagine her backed up into me, with my belly rubbing against her ass in a rhythm I haven’t felt in a long, long time, and that’s not a good thought to have in your head when your son is sitting next to you asking,  _What’re you thinking about, Dad?_  
  
“Got something on your mind?” she asks me, glancing up from the sandwich she just finished preparing.  
  
“Lots of things, actually,” I say, which is true. I don’t need to mention what I’m letting occupy my mind though, is all about her, naked, under me, on top of me, wherever.  
  
“You ought to let your father go get your brother, alone. It’s safer for you.”  
  
If she thinks she’s reading my mind, or the expression on my face, it’s nice to know all that practice in prison with game faces has paid off. I haven’t thought about Michael in at least ten minutes while I’ve stood here watching her and imagining all the things I’d do to her if we had a couple hours alone with a bed. “My brother would never go anywhere with my dad, even if he could somehow prove to Michael that he is who he is. Michael doesn’t know him and has never met him, whatever he might have told you about seeing Michael when he was a kid. He’s never seen him. He left before Michael was even born.” I say this like it might change whatever loyalty she feels towards my father, because I can see that about her. I can’t read anything else in her actions, or face, or tone of voice, but I know she’s loyal to Aldo Burrows for whatever reason.  
  
“Just because Michael didn’t know he was being seen doesn’t mean he wasn’t seen. A man doesn’t forget his family, even if he’s…”  
  
“Abandoned them?” I supply, feeling a bit agitated. She’s ruining my fantastical thoughts by making me talk about the things that piss me off, 30 years after the fact. Her eyes flicker to me and then go back to her sandwich as she scoops it up and brings it to her mouth. Taking a bite, I can tell she’s stalling, trying to gauge whatever she’s going to say in response to me. I don’t want her to say it. I don’t need her to justify him, because nothing she could say would ever make it all right. “Don’t worry about it, Jane. You don’t need to convince me of anything.”  
  
She swallows and says, “You’ve been convinced of something. You’re still here, aren’t you?” Gingerly she touches her bottom lip, which she must have forgotten about until she tried to eat.  
  
She has this way about her, something more attractive than even her ass, and her dabbing at her lip makes me want to apologize with kisses that would cause her not to care about the pain I’ve already inflicted on her. “I’m convinced for the moment. But I’m not letting him go get my brother. We’ll all go get him. It’s the only way.”  
  
“You’re very protective.”  
  
“He’s my brother. I’ve taken care of him his whole life.”  
  
She tears a chunk of sandwich off with her fingers and sticks it carefully in her mouth, nodding as she chews. “I know.”  
  
I watch her swallow again, wondering how badly her lip is hurting her. I let the conversation die away, because for some reason I believe the sentiment in her quiet  _I know_ , that in fact she understands why I’m the way I am, and though perhaps she sympathizes with my father, she’s not going to try to convince me of his noble intentions. “Are you expecting me to make you food? Because I won’t,” she states and then she gestures at the mustard and mayonnaise jars. “If you’re hungry, help yourself.”  
  
What I’m hungry for she’s not offering. Her eyes come back to mine as she’s tearing off another bite-size piece of sandwich. I move closer to her, away from the doorway, and reach around her for the knife. “You’re not the housekeeper, is that what you’re telling me?” I ask, and she doesn’t back away. I’ve invaded her space when I don’t need to, the island is small enough I could stand opposite her and reach all the ingredients to make my own sandwich.  
  
She turns her head and our faces are less than eight inches apart. “Are you chauvinistic in your views of women, Lincoln? We shouldn’t tote guns and kick asses, we should stay home and cook dinner and have babies?”  
  
A grin widens my mouth. “No, ma’am,” I say, slightly mocking. “Like I could think something like that about you anyway, after the way you took that hit.” In one hand I hold a butter knife, something to smear mayonnaise across bread, but the other hand can’t help itself as it reaches up and traces her bottom lip gently. She winces, but still doesn’t back down. It confirms that her ass is not her best feature, not at all.  
  
“I really am sorry about that,” I say, and the timber of my voice has dropped of its own volition. Everything has slowed down since I slammed my head into her face, and I’m not sure if that’s because her head’s as hard as mine or just the effect of Jane in general. I’d sure as hell like to find out.  
  
“And I really meant it when I said don’t worry about it. I’ve seen worse, deserved more, I suppose.”  
  
“That’s an intriguing statement.”  
  
“But true, right? I must be on some equivalent with your father as far as you’re concerned, and I can tell he registers somewhere slightly above pond scum.”  
  
Because I can’t think through the stupidity of what I’m about to do, I move in closer and shift her with my hands. The butter knife clatters to a resting position back on the counter. She moves easily, to my intense surprise, and I wonder if she’s getting ready to knee me in the groin when I say, “Trust me, there’s nothing about my father in this equation.”  
  
Her hands are between our bodies, the half-eaten sandwich still in one hand. I take one step closer so that our lower halves align and brush seductively against each other. With her against the island I won’t be able to get my hands on her ass easily, but if I get as far as getting my lips on hers, I’m getting my hands on her ass too. I’m going all the way with it, no testing the waters carefully.  
  
It’s been too damn long, and she’s too damn perfect.  
  
She blinks, and seems to size up the situation carefully, glancing around the room briefly before letting her gaze reconnect with mine.  
  
Then her eyes drop to my lips, and I don’t wait a moment longer.  
  
She whimpers, probably because her lip is sore, but I lave it with my tongue and then she gasps and I’m inside, and she’s kissing me back and I’m thinking maybe I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.  
  
Figuratively speaking.  
  
Then her arms move and I hear her sandwich hit something—the island, the floor?—and I groan when her hands clamp over my ass. Could she even be that in sync with me?  _Holy Mother of God._  
  
I back up a step, dragging her quite willing body with me, and cup her ass in my hands, squeezing with fingers too desperate and unruly. Then her tongue fights with mine and enters my mouth and I know not only could she kick my ass if she tried, she’d set the bed on fire, if we made it that far.  
  
And just as I consider fucking her right there in the kitchen of some place I’ve been for all of six hours, I hear LJ’s innocent voice, “Dad, are you in h—“ and then a sharp intake of breath as he finds us.  
  
My arms drop from around her much faster than they had worked to get there, and she steps back from me, ducking her head and not looking at my son, who is standing where I had been moments before with his mouth hanging open, and something like hero-worship forming in his pale blue eyes. I look at him, shaking my head slightly, both to clear it and to indicate to him that he better not say anything smart. Jane turns and walks out the other side of the room, because the kitchen leads in from the hall, but goes out to the utility room. It’s the most feminine thing I’ve seen her do in the short amount of time I’ve been around her, and something squeezes my heart hard. She might be a bad ass, but she’s embarrassed and something about that is sexy as hell too.  
  
 _Fuck_. I’m in big, big trouble.  
  
“You hungry?” I ask LJ, gesturing to the food on the counter.   
  
He looks at me, a grin working its way across his face, and then his eyes wander over to the doorway Jane disappeared through. “Yeah, I’m hungry,” he says.  
  
“Fix yourself a sandwich.”  



End file.
